


In the Night

by mylegsaremine



Category: DCU, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Derek is Batman, Eventual Smut, It's not that slight, Lydia is Batgirl, M/M, Stiles is Nightwing, Violence, because why not, gratuitous use of the f word, more tags to come, slight daddy kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-05 02:44:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16359188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mylegsaremine/pseuds/mylegsaremine
Summary: After years away searching for his father's killer, Stiles is brought back to the one place to which he never wanted to return: Hale Manor. Despite the tension between him and his former mentor/guardian, Stiles tries to overcome past trauma and some confusing feelings to find some sort of justice."BANG! Stiles went flying back. He tried to gasp, but his lungs resisted. As he stared up at the dark sky, so fucking tired of the orange that bathed everything around this building, he forced a breath deep into his newly pancaked diaphragm. Air returned to him, and with it a sharp cackle that spat out into the alley and reverberated off of the buildings around them. 'Wow,' his chest heaved in a harsh laugh. 'Fuuuck you.' He was going to have to write a thank you note to his Kevlar guy. Six years of loyal service and he had never let him down. He sat up, 'Oh, shit. That really fucking hurt.' He rolled his eyes and blinked back tears, trying to decide if it was worth it to try and pull out any of his other toys. Nope. Fuck it. He just got shot center-mass. His sternum was throbbing which he didn’t even know was possible. Instead he just chucked the stick in his hand."The Teen Wolf/DC crossover that no one asked for





	1. The Lead

**Author's Note:**

> Sort of my pet project that I've been working on for a bit. I have more written, but wanted to just post the first chapter to see how it's received. Let me know what you think!

The crisp, late winter air was light and biting around Stiles as it hit his face. It swept across the rooftops in quick bursts, sending a chill down the back of his neck as he sat, perched, on the very edge of the building next to his target. The back door, while shielded from the street, could not escape the orange glow of the neon sitting atop the rising walls, spelling out "Casino!" in big, retina-burning letters.

The back of his uniform was really starting to ride up, too. The new layer under the Kevlar was definitely a smart choice for brisk nights like tonight, and for preventing the chafing of the stiff armor against his buns, but now the thinner fabric was getting really cozy with some of his special parts, and there was a literal suit of armor in his way of picking it.

Calves and thighs screamed in protest when he tried to shift, angry at him for the hour they'd spent up here, squatting in the shadows like a fucking gargoyle.  
He sometimes wondered what other people his age were doing on nights like tonight. It was Friday. He was young and vibrant. He could totally be going to the club with Scott or Malia. Instead, he spent his time waiting for some bastard with a beer belly so big you could stab a tap in it and call the night a kegger to finish up his poker game. Except, well, large crowds stressed him out and this was a lot more… fulfilling.

His eyes zeroed in when he thought he saw a shadow flicker down in the alley. Inside the building, the restless murmur of voices could be heard as a mix of Blüdhaven's richest and most desperate all tried their hands and prayed for luck. On the ground though. On the dirty pavement that Stiles could just feel was about to get a little dirtier... nothing. His breath stilled as he waited for something else from the shadows. Any flicker. Any flash. Any bump or bang that signified that Stiles could leap into action. Nothing.

With a huff, he braced himself against the edge of the building, the porous cement gripping tight to his gloves, and swung both his legs through his arms so they dangled over the three-story drop below. Then he plopped himself down, using the friction of the suit against the building to try and scootch his way out of his wedgie. No such luck.

If he kept shuffling over trying to dig his undergarments out of his ass he was going to inch right off the roof. Wouldn't that be a front page headline for the Gazette:

"Blüdhaven Vigilante Killed by Wedgie." Sometimes the news could hurt.  
Instead, he turned his attention back to the casino, eyes wondering to the face of the building. It just looked normal to Stiles. Pale brown brick dinged with time that rose up a couple of stories higher than where he sat now. High arching windows the only clue to how old the building actually was revealed scores of nicely dressed patrons chattering excitedly from table to table. It always struck him as an odd place for a casino, but as far as a business in Blüdhaven, it was doing well. From the front.

From the back, Stiles knew it was full of every kind of scum he could find. He'd broken up two different human trafficking rings that tried to set up shop there last year. Then just a few weeks ago, he had been in investigating a cop who went missing not long after looking into the casino's tax statements. On that trip in, he had to break some poor guy's ribs and throw someone through a window to escape. It had been close. And he knew there was no way he was going back in any time soon.

Hence the reason he was spending this lovely evening sitting on a rooftop instead of his usual night time plans that involved... well, jumping on the rooftops. And across. And off. Really just a lot of jumping.

The jumping he could handle. It was the sitting still that had always been hardest for him. The constant whirring in his brain was great in a fight when he needed to focus in on the hand, the foot, the knife, the bat, and the bullet all coming at him. But when he was on a stakeout, and all that was coming at him were ears so cold he wished he had muffs on despite how that would throw off his aesthetic, the constant whirring became a deafening hum that made his hands itch and fingers twitch.

Then Stiles heard it. Down in the alley sharp like a scream in his right ear, trained on the walled off space while his left tried to ignore the noise from the street. A squeal, high and grating, from the rusty steel door. Voices followed. Deep and loud and echoing off the brick. It was hard to piece together the flickering neon that cast over the alley into an actual image, but Stiles could hear loud and clear the voice he'd spent the last week listening to on intercepted phone calls. And once he saw the profile of a man with a nose the size of a potato, and could see the way his big belly jiggled as he bellowed out a laugh, Stiles felt pretty certain his target had finally decided to call it an evening. If not, the Blüdhaven Gazette was going to get a different headline involving the Vigilante swooping down and scaring the shit out of some drunk gamblers.

"Here we go," he said, his huff being carried away in the night by the breeze he was more than ready to shake off. Shoulders tensed and body armor rustled as he lifted himself off the edge. Then with a kicking of his feet scuffing hard against the brick, and a thrust of his arms, he launched himself toward the outer wall of the casino. His knees tucked in and left arm braced flat so that he was able to avoid going splat, his forearm catching the majority of the force on his upper body and his legs extending and heaving himself away so he could fly across to the side of the building he had just been resting on. He bounced back and forth between graffitied down-town walls like an urban squirrel until he reached the pavement at the bottom with only a light smack of his boots against the asphalt.

He was faster, as usual, than the men in front of him. That said, they moved with surprising speed given their size and apparent drunkenness. Jackets flew in a flurry of wool and leather as they whirled around and stuffed meaty hands in to grab at their weapons.

"Whoa there, boys," he said, leveling a look at the group of men in front of him. His guy was in the middle. Of course. Surrounding himself with a whole trio of beefy men like a baby bison. Or Stiles himself his first year out on his own, but that was in a very different context. Reaching back, his heart gave a patter when his fingers wrapped tight around one of his sticks. He whipped it out of its back holster, earning him a whole series of guns being drawn on him. "Relax," his arm was outstretched, stick extended in a point at the guy, but nowhere near close enough to actually do any damage. "I just need to talk to..." he drew a lazy circle with the end around the man's pudgy face, "you, Mr. Nash."

"Back up," the man said. His voice was low and his thick brow set into a calculating frown. Stiles's eyes looked down to the ground in a pointed scan of the distance between them.

"I uh..." he said with a nod toward the gun nearest his face, "don't think you have anything to worry about. Just have a couple of questions." Nash cracked a smile, a grotesque expression reminiscent of a puffer fish getting his cheeks pinched. He too pulled a gun from his waistband. And then a knife from behind. Oh. The way he held the pistol in one hand, the knife tucked securely under with the menacing point glinting right at Stiles in the other hand made Stiles’s mind turn back to the big red letters he had marked on his file. “EX-MILITARY: EXTENSIVE TRAINING”. Fuck. His hope had been that alcohol would lead to sloppiness, but instead he could hear Scott’s voice in his head, “You’re one unlucky son of a bitch, Stilinski.”

“Trust me, I’m not worried.” The silver of the knife was aflame in the light from the casino sign. “I just don’t take too kindly to strangers in stupid outfits asking me questions.”

Stiles let out a low whistle.

“Okay first. That’s rude. I worked hard on this,” he said with a nod toward the onyx black and blue that gripped tight to him. That was only partially true. His doodles were pretty kick ass, but he had a friend to thank for the actual tech. “Second, I’m just looking for one guy in particular.” The other three men hadn’t moved an inch. Of course, neither had the guns in their hands. Considering they weren’t looming any closer, that was a good thing. Except they were still trained firmly on Stiles’s face and his mask was definitely not going to be any help.

It was human nature to not want to shoot someone you’ve connected to. That’s what Stiles had always been taught. Keep them talking. Make eye contact. However, that was for the average mugger or desperate robber. These guys though… Callouses on their hands where they gripped their guns consistent with bare knuckle boxing. The guy on the right had a thick scar running up between his fore and middle finger. The one in front had been on the wrong end of a broken nose one too many times, nostrils and bridge pointing in two different directions. These men did not look to Stiles like they were accustomed to responding to situations peacefully. Or even within the normal ranges of aggression.

He needed to end this. Fast. Guns being fired not only meant more boo-boos for Stiles, but also the police getting called, which was a whole other headache.

“Who might that be?” The beef-head asked.

“The Black Mask?” Stiles cringed, his own mask putting up resistance against his scrunched up brow. Nash’s eyes narrowed, his slimy smile vanishing. Golf-ball sized nostrils flared as he uttered a simple, “Kill him,” and took a step back.

Stiles sprung to the left, trying to put as much distance between him and where he had just been standing as he could. Unfortunately, they were in an alley and the only way to go was into the wall right next to the rusty door.

Using the weight of his desperate leap for leverage, he thrust away from the brick and sling-shotted himself toward the nearest man. The metal of his baton met flesh and skull with a thwack, and the man crumpled as bullets whizzed around them. Well, so much for his plan to avoid gunshots.

He allowed himself to fall on top of the now limp body. His leg struck out, hitting his big-nosed target standing in the center right in the side of the knee and sending him shooting to the ground with a cry. Stiles’s left hand scrambled for his other escrima stick still sitting in his back holster. Once it was out though, a grin broke out across his face. This was his favorite part. The brief moment after Stiles pressed the button on his sticks and could see the faint look of amusement in his opponents’ eyes jolting into one of panic as electricity arced from the tips of each long, black wand in quick, bright bursts.  
He lashed out, like a viper striking, and jabbed the ends into the guy at the forefront of the group. One met with the side of the guys thigh. The other sinking into the soft flesh of the guys ass. Stiles felt a little bad about the second one as the guy’s back contorted in a violent arch, but when he fell to the pavement and his gun scattered away from him, Stiles figured a few volts to the guy’s butt cheek was better than him getting a bullet, well, anywhere.

Alright, three guys down. Not bad. Okay, maybe two and a half. Nash was scrambling to get to his feet. Stiles’s sticks were just itching to give him a zap too, but he didn't have his answers yet. Instead he turned to face the last of the three guards, the man on the right. Everything seemed to slow as Stiles could see the man's finger twitch against the trigger. Stiles's eyes went wide, his leg swinging in a wide arc and coming down on the man's wrist with a sick snap. The man cried out, the gun going off and the bullet spraying pellets of brick into the alley from where it crashed into the wall before it fell from the guy's slackened hand.  
But Stiles wasn't done. He stepped in, right up against the guy's side. His elbow dug into the man's right kidney with a sharp jab before his arm came up and thwacked the guy on the forehead with the end of Stiles's black baton just for the hell of it. Then his fingers gripped into the gray, coat-covered arm and he ducked under. The air was a whirlwind around them as Stiles spun the guy around. He hit the wall with a grunt, face smooshing into the side of the building.

“Sorry about the hand, dude,” Stiles cringed. He always hated when he broke bones, although his guilt was eased a bit by the fact that the man had been trying to shoot him. His palm came out and cupped the back of the guy’s head. The blue stripe on his middle and ring finger running up his arm was in bright contrast to the black that seemed to blend into the shadows as his hand splayed and gripped the man’s skull. He reared it back and shoved it into the brick with a hard enough thunk that Stiles could feel him go limp underneath him. The man’s body slid face first down the wall when Stiles let go until he was a bowed lump on the ground. In the dim light, Stiles could see a shadow growing ever larger across the man’s forehead as a goose-egg emerged. Light red scrapes and tiny flares of skin ran down his cheek from where he had gotten cozy with the brick while he fell. Stiles bit his lip in a frown. “Sorry about that too.”  
A blur in the upper right of Stiles’s vision.

He hit the deck immediately, just as the crack of another gunshot went off. Splinters of brick rained down around him as his eyes darted to the culprit. Nash was standing two yards back, gun pointed directly at Stiles and a deep hatred burning in his eyes, fueled by the heaving in his chest. Stiles rolled to the left with a desperate slap at one of the compartments on his thigh. A dark piece of metal about four inches wide, surrounded by thin edges and sharp angles that matched the shape on his chest, fell into his hand. Pinching it firmly between his thumb and forefinger, he launched his arm out, the weapon only a shimmer as it whizzed through the air. His target had been the pistol in Nash’s hand, but the son of a bitch turned at the last second and the tip of one wing dug right into his shoulder. Nash let out a garbled cry, spittle visible even from Stiles's position on the ground as it sprayed across the alley. The gun, however, did not fall from his hand like Stiles wanted. Of course it stayed firmly in his hammy grasp. Stiles sprung to his feet, his escrima sticks poised at the ready as he charged at the larger man. Nash adjusted his aim, teeth clenched as he held tight to his injured arm and squeezed.

BANG!

Stiles went flying back. He tried to gasp, but even that wouldn't come out. Just a raspy squeal that burned his throat as bright spots of light swam in front of his vision from the back of his head smacking into the pavement. As he stared up at the dark sky, so fucking tired of the orange that bathed everything around this building, he forced a breath deep into his newly pancaked diaphragm. Air returned to him, and with it a sharp cackle that spat out into the alley and reverberated off of the buildings around them.

"Wow,” his chest heaved in a harsh laugh, the sounding bouncing clashing with the night air. “Fuuuuck you.” He was going to have to write a thank you note to his Kevlar guy. Six years of loyal service and he had never let him down. He sat up, grip tightening on his stick with a grin as he tweaked his neck to the side until it popped, forcing his shoulders back so that his torso could expand. "Oh, shit. That really fucking hurt." He rolled his eyes and blinked back some tears, trying to decide if it was worth it to try and whip out any of his other toys. Nope. Fuck it. He just got shot center-mass. His sternum was throbbing which he didn’t even know was possible. Instead he just chucked the escrima stick in his right hand. The blunt end hit Nash directly between the eyes and sent him reeling backward, a meaty hand clutching at his face.

Stiles hoisted himself off the ground, grime and grit sliding under his hands. Closing the distance between him and the other man, Stiles’s eyes flicked immediately to the gun just used to shoot him still in hand. With a sharp jab of the stick he still had, light sparked from the end as the little bit of electricity crackled and made Nash go slack. Stiles knocked the pistol away with a quick swipe. He stepped in, backing the dazed man against the wall until Stiles was inches away from gritted teeth and flared nostrils.

"You going to kill me, boy?" Nash spat into his face, lower lip quivering with rage as Stiles pressed a firm forearm against his throat and wrapped a hand around the blade still jutting out of his shoulder. Stiles's eyes narrowed, and maybe he gave a little twist to the metal he had taken hold of. Nash's teeth bared through a pained snarl.

"Don't call me boy," Stiles said, voice low right in his ear. He took a deep breath, pulling back so he no longer had to have his face anywhere near this skeeze's, but keeping his arm strong and in place tucked comfortably against his larynx. "There's history there." Nash's heavy nostrils widened, jaw twitching ever so slightly as he stared into Stiles's eyes. "Now," Stiles growled, "Where. Is. The. Black. Mask?"

"I. Don't. Know."

"Don't lie to me," Stiles's growl became a roar, lips pulled back and teeth bared. With a light toss, he flipped his escrima stick around so that what he believed was technically called the "shocky" end was digging into Nash's armpit. "I have spent two fucking years studying the very carefully hidden accounts belonging to a certain shadow-hooded shit head. I know when he’s out of his hidey-hole, and I’m not going to lose him now just because you forgot how to use your words. Now tell me, what is Black Mask doing paying such a hefty chunk of change to a dishonorably discharged explosives tech?"

His puffy lips pulled back into a grin, deep eyes staring into Stiles.

"What makes you think I'll tell you?"

Stiles stared back, his own smirk playing at his mouth. "Because I have been watching you too. How do you think I knew you'd be here tonight?" As Nash's smile faded, Stiles's only grew. "Every single run you've made to the Stop-n-Shop on Walnut? Every trip to the dry-cleaners? Even the nursing home.” The man’s eyes went wide.

“Oh yeah. Thought you were being sneaky,” Stiles tutted. “A different name. A private suite. Don’t worry, I think it’s sweet that a big, tough, under-ground explosives dealer still has time to visit his mama.”

Nash tensed underneath him. “You son of a—” his teeth ground together. Stiles laughed.

“Don’t worry. I’m not in the business of going and hurting little old ladies. But…” his eyes narrowed. His smile shifted into something more menacing. A darkness heavy on his tongue when he said, “if you do not tell me everything you know about the Black Mask, I. Will. Haunt. You. Every time you leave that fortress you call a house I will be right there making your life hell. And trust me, it’s only a matter of time before I find a way past your fancy security and you’re not even safe in your own bed.” He spat out the last bit, satisfaction creeping into him when Nash flinched at the drops of spittle flying at his face.

Off in the distance, there was a loud, high pitched wooing. Stiles cocked his head, turning his ear to the noise. Time was running out. “Cops are coming. We have maybe a minute until they’re here. What’s it going to be?”

“If I say nothing, you get caught too.”

“Nahhh,” Stiles crinkled his nose. His head tossed back in a nod toward the three unconscious men behind him. “It’s too late for those guys —which, while we’re on the subject, who only hires three body guards? I know you just got paid almost half a billion, spring for the fourth corner on that square. It’s so much safer—” he stopped. Rambling again, he knew. The number of times criminals had complained about how much he talked would be enough to hurt his feelings if he didn’t always kick their ass. He let his jaw set back into his stern face, eyes gleaming with malice as he said, “I’ve escaped from the cops more times than I can count. I am the Nightwing, I will disappear into the dark and leave you here with your friends. And then by the time the sun comes up, a file with every scrap of evidence I have compiled against you will be on the police chief’s desk with a pretty bow on it just for shits and giggles. Unless you start talking.”

Neck muscles tightened under Stiles’s arm. Nash was panicking. Stiles could feel it, the way his pulse quickened. The way his eyes darted to the opening of the alley as the whirring of sirens came closer and closer. He did a good job hiding it though with the angry set of his jaw and tough guy brow furrowed still. But Stiles had been on the receiving end of enough threats to know when one had been successful. “Clock’s a-tickin’,” Stiles chided, and that was the final push.

“Fine.” Nash’s feet shifted beneath them and Stiles pressed closer in response. He had no plans to give this guy any room to move. “I was approached by a man in a bar early last May. Asked me if I’d be willing to work on a big order over the year. It was one shipment a month, each to a different drop off point in the middle of the desert.”

“How big are we talking?” Stiles frowned. “Missiles? Nukes?” Skin grated against the rough textured material of Stiles’s glove as he shook his head.

“No, actually. That was the weird thing, despite the random deliveries in the middle of nowhere. It was huge, the order. Haven’t worked so fast in my life. But it was all small stuff. Like, could blow through a slab of concrete no problem but usually once someone pays over a hundred-mill they’re wanting something that can do some mass destruction.”

“But with over 400 million dollars worth of the small stuff? What kind of damage could he do?”

Nash attempted a shrug, but it turned to a cringe as the motion tugged at the blade still in his shoulder. “Hard to say. I guess if he used them all on one target maybe half a city.” Nash frowned, “But like I said it’s not the most efficient way to go about it for the money.” Stiles’s heart dropped down into his stomach, lips sucked between his teeth as a heavy mist of dread settled around him. This wasn’t Black Mask’s usual game. He wanted wealth. Power. The chase. Always the chase. But not mindless terror.

He could hear shouting from the street. Barking of orders from cop to cop. Stiles’s eyes flicked back and forth from the man he was interrogating to the shadows he could see rushing towards the entrance to the alley. He was out of time but he wanted more. Needed more.

“Thank you Mr. Nash. You’ve been sort of helpful,” he said, voice cold. Stiles pulled his arm away from his throat and took enough of a step back that the current couldn’t pass to him. Then he gave the man a hardy zap. He fell into a puddle at Stiles’s feet, the younger man looking down at his limp body with a sense of dread.

“Alright here we go.” He sighed as he squatted. Making sure to pluck his wingding out of the meaty flesh of Nash’s right arm and scramble to put his escrima sticks back in their holsters first, he slipped his hands under a trunk of a thigh and an armpit he could smell from here and heaved the big guy up, his quads crying out in protest. “Fuck fuck fuck,” he stumbled as he dug his fingers into the soft skin and hoisted the unconscious body up, over, and onto his shoulders.

Booted feet pounded against the slimy asphalt as Stiles took off in the other direction. There, just twenty yards away, a side alley. Stiles’s breath quickened and he ran faster, pushing and pushing until he could skid around the corner; shouts of “Stop! Freeze!” following him. He fell back, bracing Nash against the wall with his shoulders as he huffed. The weight pressing down on him was causing him to slide down the wall, and his feet scrambled to find a grip. Stiles flipped his forearm over to find the button he was looking for. One, two, three down. He jammed it with a stab of his forefinger.

“Come on, come on, come on,” he urged, turning to stare at the corner. The echoes of rapid footsteps were getting louder and louder. Then, he heard it. Thank god.

His head whipped around to the opening into the street. With a grunt, he pressed back up into Nash and lifted, standing up straight and jogging to the end of the alley as the whirring of a familiar compact engine drew nearer. “Heyyyy buddy,” he panted as his bike swung around the corner and squealed to a stop, tires steaming at the ends of their long, curving streaks on the road.

He threw Nash down just in front of the seat with little mercy, swinging his leg around and wriggling into place. He cringed as he pulled a flopping body into his lap and pinned him there with his left arm, revving the engine with his right.

“Hey!” a woman’s voice shouted, rough and commanding. Stiles cast a quick glance over his shoulder and caught sight of the officer, legs spread and gun leveled right at Stiles with several more running up behind her. Stiles gripped the gas and jerk the handle bars. The back tire spun around toward the open street with a screech and he shot off, the warm yellow glow of the streetlights wrapping around him as he zipped through the maze of roads and buildings.

 

Fifteen minutes later and Stiles was sitting on a lumpy, gray couch in a poorly lit apartment. An expanse of fast-food wrappers stretched across the carpeted terrain, crinkling sharp and grating as Nash’s feet stirred from his place tied tight to the armchair. The man’s head lulled to the side and he let out a groan.

"Fuck me," he cringed eyes blinking back to life. His head swerved around, wobbly like it was still unsure of it self, and took in the surroundings. "Where did you take me?"

"A friend's place," Stiles said, heaving himself up from the uneven but somehow overly squishy black hole that was this sofa. He tiptoed over to the kitchen, feet dancing around the mess on the floor. A brisk gust of air hit his masked face when he pulled open the door to the fridge and pulled out a beer.

"And where's your friend?"

"Who knows?" Stiles shrugged. "He’s only ever at his office, at the gym, or with a girl. At his hour," he cast a glance at the clock glowing on the stove. "I'm guessing with a girl. Don't worry, I sent him a text when we got here." The beer bottle hit the edge of the nearest counter and the cap popped off with a pfft. Then Stiles moseyed back over to the couch and flopped down.

"Why am I here?" Nash asked.

"I have a few more questions."

"I already told you everything I know."

"Mmmm," his head cocked to the side in mocking thought. "Maybe. But I'd reallllly like those drop off coordinates."

The armchair gave a creak as Nash strained against the ropes binding him to it. "Are you crazy? I told you. They were all random points in the middle of scorched fucking nowhere. And that was month's ago," He cried out. Stiles smirked and sipped at his beer. The refreshing bitterness washed through his tongue. It felt like a cool dip in the pool after a long day in the heat. So nice.

"I told you, I've been watching you for a while." Stiles smacked his lips. "Your memory is great for not leaving a paper trail, huh? Not so much for acting like you don’t know shit." The creaking stopped and Nash let himself fall back, his upper lip curling into a snarl, but his eyes looked dim. Defeated. "And trust me," he continued.

"I've been tracking Black Mask even longer. He never does things randomly. There's some sort of pattern."

Before Nash could argue the front door burst open with a bang against the wall. A vicious figure loomed in the doorway, the low lighting leaving him shrouded in shadow as he skulked forward and dragged nails across the the wall. Then, his fingers caught on the hall light and flicked it on.

"What the hell, Nightwing," Jackson hissed, eyes darting to the large man who was so tied up Stiles could have been filming tit-bondage porn.

"Hey," Stiles chirped from his spot on the couch. Jackson stomped over and ripped the beer out of his hands, taking a sip of it before slamming it down on the end-table.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"I had a package," Stiles said with a nod toward Nash. The air around Jackson crackled with rage, his icy blue eyes laser pin points burning right through Stiles's skull.

"So you brought him here?" Jackson's fist clenched. "We have a system! One that doesn't involve you bringing dangerous criminals to my apartment!"

"What?" He gave a shrug. "I needed to use a computer and wasn't going to bring him back to my place." Stiles could practically hear teeth cracking as Jackon's jaw clenched tight.

"You're such a fucking asshole."

"Ouch," a gloved hand splayed over the bird on his chest, right over his heart. "You wound me." Fingers danced across the arm of the couch as he made a playful grab at the beer, but Jackson swiped it away. Bubbles went glug glug glug as the man with cheek bones so high and a jaw so square, Stiles which one was the superhero downed the drink.

"Don't drink my beer," Jackson snapped, pulling away from the bottle with a satisfied gasp.

"Rude," Stiles squinted at him.

"Yeah well, so is texting me with a delivery in my apartment at two in the morning when I am with someone."

"Called it." Stiles met Nash's gaze, hands coming up to grip at Jackson's chin. "This guy's such a stud," he cooed, but Jackson slapped his hand away. That didn't deter  
Stiles though, who just kept yammering. "I've been meaning to ask you about that, by the way," he said as he swept a pointed gaze across the burger wrapper wasteland that surrounded them. "I know you spend like a douchey amount of time in the gym, but come on? How do you keep your skin so clear eating like this?"

"Lucky genetics," Jackson grumbled. He pulled himself away from the conversation and into the kitchen to drop the bottle into the trash can. "Now will you please tell me what you're doing in my apartment?"

"Jackson, meet Miles Nash," Stiles gave a flourish over toward the armchair. Jackson stiffened, back straightening. A cautious gaze was cast over his shoulder at the two men still in the living room.

"The Miles Nash?" His voice was careful. Guarded. But Stiles could hear the hope creeping in at the edges. He grinned and gave Jackson a nod. "Holy shit!" Jackson threw his head back and laughed, scrambling back into the living room. "We’re going to be rich! I can finally get the new stereo for my car.”

"Buddy," Stiles said, clasping him on the shoulder. "Don’t try to polish a turd. You can finally get a new car with a better stereo already in it.”

"How did you... how... how?"

"Picked him up outside of the Tenth Street Casino. Knocked him out and brought him here."

"That is amaz—" Jackson started to laugh, but then his head snapped back in a confused frown. "Wait, knocked him out? How did you get him up here?"

"Dragged him up your fire escape." Which was a total lie. He had a fucking grappling hook. He wasn’t going to drag an unconscious man up the stairs when he had an express elevator attached to his body. But Jackson let out a low, impressed whistle and, well, it was the little things in life that brought Stiles joy.

"You've outdone yourself with this one."

"Now aren't you glad that I skipped the safe house and brought him straight to you?"

Jackson's jaw opened and then snapped back shut, lips pursed in thought. "Not glad. Less angry."

"I'll take it."

Nash began to speak. His voice was like gravel and calm despite the anger and fear Stiles could sense pouring off of him. "I'm going to kill you both."

The two men standing turned to look at him. Stiles cocked a brow.

"Excuse me, sir. We're having a conversation here."

"Nightwing," Jackson slapped him on the chest. "Please don't piss him off. Get what you need and then for the love of god get out of my home.”

"I'm sorry, did you say home? Or dumpster behind a McDonald's," Stiles said, kicking at an empty box of nuggets by his feet. His light smile disappeared though when he saw the dry and frustrated look set in Jackson's brow. "Okay okay," he held up his hands in surrender. He made his way over next to the armchair, squatting down so he could look Nash in the eyes. "Now, how about those drop-off coordinates?"

"If I tell you, they'll kill me. Can you say the same if I don't?" Nash was smiling his slimy smile because he knew he was right. Stiles knew he was right. And Stiles was going to make sure he knew that too.

"I'm not going to kill you," Stiles said, his voice only a hair above a whisper. "There is only one man that I want to kill, and right now, you're in the way of that."

"Pity," the man said, leaning in as much as he could with the restraints wrapped around him. He began to laugh. A disgusting sound like the bubbling of a tar pit that rose from his chest.

"Yes," Stiles said, ignoring the grotesque semblance of a chuckle. "Like I said, I’m not in the business of hurting little old ladies. But look at my friend over there," he nodded back at Jackson, his eyes tracking Nash's to make sure he did as he was told. "He's pretty, but not too bright." A yelp of protest came from Jackson, but Stiles held up a hand to silence him. "You see," his hand lowered, coming to a rest a fraction of an inch away from Nash's arm, "he likes to talk. And he doesn't really care who he talks to. So if I talk to him about certain topics such as the weather, or sports, or certain assisted-living facilities up north housing certain mother-figures? Well there's a good chance that information will find it's way onto the street. And you know how fast word can travel on the street to, well, anyone. Even those that don’t really care for you, and don’t have the same reservations I do."

Nash reared back and spat, the glob landing heavy on Stiles's cheek and sliding it's way slowly down like a slug. Stiles didn't flinch though. His face didn't cringe in disgust like he could feel his stomach doing. No. He was solid. Cold. Unmoving. A steady hand wiping away the assault. “Pity,” he echoed back, standing and stepping back to Jackson, but his eyes never left the man in the chair. “Jackson, are you feeling particularly chatty tonight?”

“Southern Great Basin Desert,” Nash forced through a tight jaw.

“This is where we’re going to want your computer,” Stiles said to Jackson. Sky blue eyes rolled back in his head with a frustrated huff. But he stomped over to the little desk in the corner anyway and flipped open his laptop, the surprisingly hefty computer roaring to life as it awoke from its slumber. Fingers swept across keys, typing in password with well-familiar surety. Then the cursor darted about the screen as Jackson pulled up the global positioning software Stiles had told him he would need when they first started working together.

“Alright, whenever you’re ready,” Jackson said, hand poised at the mouse.

“42°09'52.5"N 119°14'14.9"W…” he began to list off numbers, voice droning and defeated. Jackson clacked away. After every coordinate he left a marker, and after the fifth, Stiles began cursing to himself. He could connect the dots faster than Jackson could place them. He had spent three years staring at that symbol every fucking day. Every night, actually.

“Fuck,” he swore as the red pinpoints confirmed his fears. The more and more numbers read, the more Jackson, clicked, and the more the symbol appeared.

“What does it mean?” Jackson asked, his face illuminated by the harsh light of his computer screen.

“It means,” Stiles said with a sigh that could never fully express the dread that bubbled and spat in his stomach as he stared at the bat on screen, “I’m going back to Beacon City.”

"What?" Ball-bearings squeaked as Jackson spun around in his chair, a frown etched deep into his face. "Are you sure that's a good idea? Won’t he mind your on his turf,” he said with a jerk of the head toward the computer.

"No," Stiles shook his head, his bottom lip getting sucked between his teeth. "Don't worry about it. I have f--" he almost said friends, but that wasn't really accurate, was it? The dread that crept up his spine and made his heart stutter at the thought of going back seemed to affirm that "friends" wasn't quite the write word. Not anymore "--Uhhh," he stumbled, "People. I have some people there." And really, as much as it stung his cheeks to say aloud, that was what it was.

"Alright, well," Jackson's hands raised in a questioning shrug, "how long will you be gone?"

"Not sure, but he should be able to tide you over until I'm back," Stiles said with a nod over to where Nash was glaring at them. "And if not, you might just have to do some actual bounty hunting." He spun on his heel and started toward the door, a cry of protest from Jackson behind him.

"You're not just leaving him here are you?"

"You can handle him for one night," Stiles called over his shoulder before slipping out the door. He could hear the worried screams of objection jumbled together by the slamming door, but he ignored them. Marching down and out the building. In the alley behind, he began tugging away at his armor.

Chest plate and shielded sleeves slipped off in one disarrayed piece, exposing pale skin to the sharp bite of the night air. Pants and boots came next. It wasn't until he had everything off and packed into his bag, slipping into a pair of joggers and a light tee-shirt instead, that he pried off his mask. The spirit gum tugged at his skin and made it itch, and the black eye make up he put around his eyes smeared across the back of his hand as he wiped at it. And there he was. No longer the Nightwing. Just Stiles Stilinski standing behind a dumpster with a bag full of equipment and a tricked out motorcycle that he began disguising, slapping on the magnetic sheets that covered the blue stripes and bird decal so that his back just looked sleek black.

The thought occurred to him of just staying here. Foregoing the night and disappearing into the day with his own unmasked face as his disguise. He could teach gymnastics or something, or maybe go into business with Jackson for real and leave behind the storage-shed drop-offs and under the table payments.  
But the shadows.

They swirled around him. Battled for ownership of the buildings and streets against the lights that lined the roads. Each one a reminder of the deep black visage that hid the face of the man who made hatred and bile rise up in Stiles's throat,

And he knew there was no leaving. No forgetting the night when it haunted every part of him. Not until this was over.

He swung his leg over his bike and took off out into the city, the wind whipping his bare face and sending chills crashing over him. When he at last made it back to his apartment, a gray building with a light over the front door that flickered and sputtered, he could feel his shoulders sagging with the weight of his upcoming trip. Keys rattled together and footsteps trudged up stairs until he reached his door and fumbled to open it. His gear bag hit the floor with a dull thud, slipped off his shoulder and left in the entrance hallway. He flicked on a light and was greeting by anxious mewling.

"Hey kitkat," he cooed, dropping to his knees as a blur of fur and harsh meows came darting from the bedroom. His hands scratched their way through the swirls of golden fur as his cat flopped down in front of him, eyes shut in pure bliss and a heavy hum resonating from his mouth. "I hope you're ready for a little trip, Clark," he said as he pet the petite feline. "We're going back home."


	2. The Grave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this one's a little shorter. The next chapter is almost as long as the first, but I want to make sure I'm pacing myself with posting so that I have enough time to stay ahead on the actual writing. No worries, I don't think I'll wait a whole week to post the next one, but let me give people a chance to read this first and then I'll update. Thank you to all who commented and gave kudos for the first chapter. Let me know what you guys think!

The wind whipped past Stiles, a loud thrum in his ears, as his body flew upward. His head began to pound as the blood suddenly rushed to it, urged on by the abrupt turn upside down. 

Hands released, chalk puffing up in little clouds as fingers uncurled from fiberglass and with a heave of the abdomen, his body spun around. It was good. He could tell. But he wasn't sure if it was good enough. Could feel the way is body struggled against the forces around him and refused to stay perfectly straight. In his head, he was cursing as he came back down onto the high bar, hands gripping and legs swinging around until he was once again upside down in a straddled invert. But his face didn't show the frustration. Couldn't. It was unmovable as the world around him did nothing but move.

He swung down, body tucking into a pike as it swung through his arms and then he was flying through the air. His core screamed against him as he forced his body to torque around. With one final grasp at the bar, and one final swing, he dismounted. Feet crashed into the mat beneath him, sinking into it as he kept his legs straight and chest out, proud. His arms flew up into a dramatic v as applause roared around him, crashing into his ears as if he were listening to a seashell. Eyes flicking to the judges table, he watched as they furiously scribbled notes. A sigh rose up inside him, fueled by disappointment and a strong rush of self-pity. He scanned the audience until he caught sight of him. His dad, sitting there in the second row near the right edge, standing and clapping furiously. He knew it was time to exit the floor. He had done his job and now it was up to the judges. But he didn't want to. Knew he could do better. With a weight sinking into his chest, he trudged across the gym and over to the side. With a quick hand he swiped at a cup and ran it under the water cooler, his breath coming in pants and fresh sheen of sweat coating his skin.

"Stiles!" a familiar voice chimed behind him. He turned around, icy water running down his throat in relieving streams. Lydia stood before him, clad in a similar unitard and her flaming hair pulled into a tight bun on top of her head. She ignored the perspiration that was running off of him and wrapped him in a hug. "That was amazing!"

"Thanks," he huffed an appreciative laugh. Her brow crinkled and he knew she had picked up on the little lilt of doubt in his voice.

"You can't seriously think you weren't incredible out there," she frowned. He gave a shrug, plastic cup crinkling beneath his fingers as he took another sip.

"I just know I could have done better," he said, eyes turning to the floor and a bitter taste running up his throat and across his tongue. 

"Whatever," she slapped him on the shoulder. "You were amazing. Stop being so hard on yourself." Her voice was severe in the only way that Lydia could be. Hazel eyes bore into him, the glare in them sympathetic but the frown around them scolding.

"I know," he sighed, finishing the last of his water. He could feel eyes on him from across the gym, looking up to see his father grinning at him, a proud flash of teeth beaming across the swarm of people. "I'm going to go see my dad," he said with a nod to the older man in the bleachers. Lydia smiled at him, lips soft and kid as she wrapped him into a hug.

"Alright," she said against him. "Seriously, great job."

He said nothing as he pulled away, jogging across the gym to his dad as the announcer called out the next gymnast.

 

In the car on the way home, the cool glass of the window pressed against Stiles's forehead. His eyes stared out, taking in the blur of trees and houses that zipped past them. He could sense his dad next to him, feel him shifting around in his seat as he drove. But he said nothing for the longest time as the Beacon City neighborhoods gave way around them until they were pulling into their driveway.

“You know you were awesome, right?” His dad said whenever they pulled into park and Stiles had yet to stir. He gave a noncommittal grunt and curled back in on himself. A sigh from his dad filled the space between them, a warm hand gripping Stiles on the shoulder. “Seriously,” his voice was sunny and bright, a comforting presence coiling around Stiles’s insides and squeezing at the disappointment that sat like a rock in his gut. “Second place is nothing to scoff at.”

“I know,” Stiles’s slick windbreaker rustled against the leather of the car.

“The guy that won had three years on you. You’ll get them next year.”

“I could have won,” Stiles argued. It was a bitter insult to him, the implication that he was destined to lose simply because he only just turned fifteen. He was good. He knew he was because of all the bruises and blisters and hours of his life he’d put into it. And he knew he was good enough to beat the lug of an eighteen year old who shouldn’t have even been in his age bracket. But he didn’t. Couldn’t. Despite the pain and fatigue that he pushed his body to daily, he hadn’t managed to win.

“Stiles,” his dad sighed again, his voice tugging at Stiles so that he turned to look at him. “You can’t be the best all the time.”

“I—” he started, but his dad shot him a look that snapped his jaw shut.

“I’m telling you,” he continued, pushing past Stiles’s interruption as if it was nothing. “You won’t be the best all the time. And that’s okay.” He could see his dad’s Adam’s apple working while he talked. Could feel the sappiness seeping into his words. The angsty teen in him was doing its best to force an eyeroll. Except, well, really Stiles was just as big of a sap, and a lump was growing in his throat as his dad talked. “Son, if you’ve worked as hard as you have the past few months for this competition, you’re never a failure to me. You’ve done enough.” 

A heavy arm wrapped around Stiles’s drooping shoulder and pulled him into a hug across the console of the car. The smell of a familiar musk and aftershave filled Stiles’s nose as he buried his face in his dad’s hug.

“I love you, Dad.” His voice was muffled by his dad’s jacket.

“Love you too, son.” His dad pulled away, shutting off the engine so that a blanket of silence fell across them. “And Stiles,” Stiles met sparkling pupils, drops of emotion shining bright in the smile-lined eyes of the man who raised him. “Like your mom said, be gracious and persistent in whatever you do. I’ll always be proud of you.”

“I’m uh—” Stiles choked, his words bracing themselves against the lump in his throat and refusing to budge. He swallowed around them, a sharp pain, before trying again. “I’m proud of you too, you know?” His father’s dimples twitched and lips pressed into a small smile.

“Thanks, son,” he said. And Stiles wasn’t sure, but he thought he could see his dad pawing at his eyes as he climbed out of the car.

 

Sharps blades of grass played at the edges of Stiles’s ankles, tickling the skin exposed where his jeans were riding up just a little. His legs were tucked up under his chin, a heavy friction from the denim and the scruff that he didn’t bother to shave off before he left Blüdhaven. Sunlight was beating down on him, crisp in the early afternoon and not yet reaching its full, body numbing warmth. Still, as it was it enveloped Stiles in a tight embrace that made him appreciate the sweating, cold beverage he had held tight in his hand.

“I’m doing alright,” he said. It was barely above a whisper, but it seemed to barrel through the silence around him. The smooth rim of cool glass met his lips and he took a sip of beer, cringing at the bitter taste that bit at his tongue. He hated IPAs. Never understood why anyone would want to drink something that tasted like a grapefruit shat in it. But it was his dad’s favorite. Had spent his childhood seeing the bottles in the fridge and in the hand of the older man as they’d watch the game together. “I’m doing good work. I’m hap—” the word stopped just on the edge of his tongue. He could feel it tied down, roped and bound by the aching cavern in his chest that writhed and screamed at the thought. “Helping people,” he corrected. 

“Working hard, just like you always told me to. Being persistent.” With a nod and a wink he held up the beer in a little toast toward the gray stone that he sat in front. “I’m uh…” he blinked. Acid budded and burned at his eyes, tears that were intruding on the moment. “I’m sorry I don’t visit more often. It’s just hard, you know? Being back here. Not just the cemetery but the city. And I know what you’d say, forgive and forget,” his lips quivered, something between a pout and snarl and he wasn’t sure which was more dangerous. “But Dad I…” and then the words came free and fast along with the tears. “I’m not as strong as you. I don’t know how you did it. How you managed to be so strong all the time. For Mom. For me. For the city.”

He could feel the way his breath was coming in rapid gusts that made his head dizzy and light. Could feel the raw buzz all over his body, his skin a live wire to every sensation. Every emotion. He finished the beer, face twisting in disgust as he could hear it, the memories rising in a tide around him. Every gunshot. Every scream. Every break that he caused. It was all there, stirring under the surface. A catacomb filled with vicious creatures that Stiles couldn’t bare to look at.

“I don’t know if you’re still proud of me,” he said. With one hand he reached over into the cooler next to him, dropping the empty bottle with a clink and getting a fresh one while his other hand wiped at the streams running down his face. He used his forearm to twist off the top, the metal ridges of the cap digging into his skin for purchase before it gave way with a hiss. “But I’m still proud of you.”

His eyes scanned over the words etched in the stone in front of him, “Noah Stilinski: Loving Father, Husband, and Officer,” as beer sizzled and spat onto the ground. The grass and dirt soaked it up as fast as Stiles could pour it out until the second bottle was empty and the grass in front of his father’s grave was slick and sticky. He rose, walking the few steps to where his bike was resting on its heavy kickstand a few feet away. In his carrier strapped to the back and buried under bags, Clark was crying loudly. Displeased at having been caged for so long.

“I know, I know,” Stiles reassured him with two fingers crammed through the bars to scratch lightly at his cheek. “We’re almost done.” He pulled his hand back, being chased by little nips of sharp teeth, and went for the bundle he had carefully tucked between the carrier and the strap. “Don’t worry, Mom,” he said, spinning around to face the grave right next to his dad’s. “I didn’t forget about you.”

He peeled back the paper wrapping to expose the lilies a bit more, pressing a kiss to soft petals before laying them at the base of the stone. Hands came to rest atop granite, gripping tight at the curved edge as he braced himself between the glorified rocks that marked where his parents lay.

“I love you guys,” he said, giving his mother’s grave a pat. His hand on his father’s tightened as his mind turned to his next step. “This is going to all be over soon. I can feel it.”


	3. The Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will be the last chapter until at least Thanksgiving because I need to catch up on my writing. I hope it's enough to keep you all satisfied until then!! Thank you for all the feedback on the first to chapters. It's always appreciated!

The smell of cigarettes surrounded Stiles, permeating and yellowing the walls of his motel room. He didn’t mind. Had stayed in much stinkier places. He had all of his notes and clippings and files laid out on the bed around him, Clark curled against his side, his gear bag on the floor next to them. It was all he needed as he poured over the papers and papers stacked in front of him. It was here somewhere, he could feel it. The connection. When Stiles had learned about the Black Mask’s move back to Beacon City, he printed out every file he could find on every account tied to Black Mask’s, and every account tied to those, and tied to those, until he had a stack so thick it could have been written by George R.R. Martin.

He wasn’t reading it all, eyes scanning quickly over each page in hopes of finding a name. An address. A company. Anything he could connect back to Beacon City other than that damned bat out in the desert. Anything that could help him move forward with this on his own. It wasn’t going well, lost in a sea of numbers that revealed nothing to him until…

Their. After hours of digging through account numbers and what he was sure were fake names. An area code he recognized, used in the downtown area of the city. He swung around off the bed, making Clark jump and meow in protest as he scrambled for his laptop. It whirred to life, hot against his thighs. Fingers clacked away at keys as he typed in the address and pulled up a street view picture of a squat blue building. Two stories. A big sign out front that read “Walker Engineering” in white, bold font. Well, that was as good a place as any to start. Stiles had his target.

He waited until the sun was down of course. His black suit wasn’t nearly as effective at hiding him in the daytime. As soon as the yellow orb did disappear over the horizon, the purples and oranges that painted the sky fading into black, Stiles was gone. A quick kiss pecked to the top of Clark's head before his gear bag was swung over his shoulder and he was out the door on his motorcycle. It was surreal, racing past all of these buildings. Some new, some he recognized from his life here in the city. All blurred together with the speed of his bike.

A couple blocks away from the address he had found, he pulled his bike off the main road and into an alleyway, parking it neatly behind a dumpster. He peeled away the decal covers, the bright blue designs making it clear to the world that this was the bike of the Nightwing.. Or at least he hoped they would. He wasn't actually sure how much the people of Beacon City paid attention to him considering they had their own jack ass running around dressed like a bat. Then came his costume, the first layer a stretchy, breathable athletic material. The second the layers of Kevlar and heavy armored pads. Then came the mask. In the dark of the alley he smeared black paint around his eyes and painted the back of the black piece in his hands with spirit gum gum before smacking it onto his face. He held it there, counting until he could feel his skin tighten and cling to the mask. His jaw worked and brow scrunched, testing to make sure it would hold.

"Alrighty," he clasped his hands together, rubbing the textured gloves against each other. Eyes flicked skyward, the light from the city blurring out any chance of stars, but the heavy black that stretched above a comfort to Stiles. He stretched his arm out, left eye squinting and hand curling to a fist as he took careful aim, pressing the button on his right gauntlet. A small, barbed hook whistled out, cutting through the air with the heavy-duty fiber connected to it whipping back and forth in the wind. He could hear it land on top of the roof with a dull clang and then he pulled back on it, the slack retracting back into his arm until he could feel the cable tugging on him. He followed it, bracing feet against brick and pushing off. With each step up, the rope got shorter, pulled him higher, and he scaled the wall.

Once he reached the top, he peered back down at the alley from which he had just emerged. His bike sat safe behind the dumpster. His bag and casual clothes tucked away. Satisfied, he turned his eyes to the horizon. To his left, the coast could be seen. The shimmer of thousands of moons reflected in the water bright and sparkling. He only allowed himself a brief moment to think about it though. A flash of memories of him and his dad at the pier. And then he was turning away. Toward where he hoped his answers lay.

His chin tilted down, brushing lightly against the high neck of his uniform as he eyed the distance between buildings. "Okay," he sighed. It was a jump, but not anything he hadn't done before. His head darted to the other end of the roof, making sure he had enough space. He made his way across, eyes narrowing and breath hitching in anticipation. Then, he took off. 

Feet pounded against top of building, breath came in steady, controlled pants. His heart beat faster. And then his quads contracted and calves cried out as he launched himself from the rooftop. Arms pinwheeled through the air as he soared across the alley, feet hitting the next roof with a bang that turned seamlessly into the rhythm of another run. And then he was across that roof and in the air again, the next building a story lower, forcing him to tuck and roll on the landing before resuming his voyage across the Beacon City skyline.

Three, four, five rooftops Stiles leaped across like the world's most daring hurtle sprinter until across the street he saw the familiar blue building, looking short compared to the towers of office buildings that rose up around it. It was there, on that rooftop facing his target, that his feet skidded to a stop and he made his way to the edge. With a huff, he threw himself down behind the lip of the building, allowing himself a minute to just breathe. The concrete cool against his cheek. Then he reached up and gripped the edge, pulling himself up enough to look at the grand white letters that marked the engineering firm.

The street-level wall was all windows, revealing a darkened reception area that lead back into a hallway that Stiles couldn't see past. The second floor had a large corner window on each side. He could make out a desk on the left. Perhaps the same on the right? It was hard to tell. He waited though, breathing low and quiet even though he knew no one could see him from his position tucked away on top of this building.

No, he breathed after a half hour of just staring at the building void of light. No security guards. 

He rose, leaning well over the edge and over the street below. So many answers to his many questions could be in that building. His whole body felt the push from deep inside to make his away across. It wouldn't be hard to slip in. An air vent on top. A picked lock behind. In fifteen minutes he could be on the other side of the many windows and digging through files. Searching for what he needed.

But something stopped him. He knew. Could feel it. He needed more time. Couldn't just rush in blind. Even without guards, there was no telling what kind of security system this place had, especially if it were in the Black Mask's pocket. He would need to study it. Find the city's blue prints for the building. Check it's expenses and make sure it hadn't spent any money on anything crazy. Stiles had learned that lesson after he was met by automated turrets after trying to break into a bank's records room one a couple years back. Of course, that was how he discovered the first trace of Black Mask's financial hiding-place off the coast of the Mediterranean. And while financial was all it was --Stiles had still yet to figure out where Black Mask disappeared to whenever he went underground-- that information was what lay the ground work for everything he had learned since about what the man in the mask had been up to. 

Still, he'd like to avoid being shot if possible. So with a frustrated snarl, he pulled back, allowing himself to sink back down.

He was close. He could feel it. Had even told his dad how close he was. And now he had to just sit there.

"Help!" a cry rang out through the night, shattering the reflective state Stiles had cocooned himself in. A woman's voice. Maybe four blocks away. "Somebody help me!"  
Stiles tensed, goose bumps breaking out across his arms despite the layers protecting him from the night. His ears strained to hear something else. Anything, but there was only silence. 

He cursed as he stood, eyes turning back to the building that called to him. But he forced himself to look away. Ripped his gaze and his mind from it.

"God dammit," he swore under his breath. Of course he couldn't spend one night in Beacon City without some sort of street crime going on. If the Bat was so fucking great, Stiles would have thought the crime rates would have gone down. No. Instead here he was having to pick up the slack even though he had more important things to worry about.

He whirled around on his heel and took off to the East toward where the panicked and shrill screams had come from. As he sprung across the rooftops, he forced himself to ignore the huff's of his own breath. The hammering of his feet. And he tried, tried hard to hear anything else from the woman who needed him.

"Please, please don't," a pleading voice squeaked to Stiles's left. His head whipped around, running to peer out into the space below him. Two men. A butterfly knife glinting in the street light that seeped behind the buildings as it flitted through the air in an expert back and forth, casting pinpoints of light to reflect off of it. Even across the face of the woman up against the wall, eyes wide and cheeks peeled back in horror.

"Now now pretty lady," the man without the knife said as he sidled up against her. "There ain't no need to panic."

"That's right," the other said with a sickening giggle. Like a rabid hyena. "We just want a couple of... favors," he hissed, "from you."

She was shaking her head in violent whips back and forth, a strangled yelp gurgling out of her. Stiles had seen enough. He looked down. Could see a quilt of shadow on the right end of the alley way. That's where he dropped down, flicking a button on his gauntlets so the three parallelogramed blades popped out with a schwick. With a grunt, he slammed his arm against the side of the building as he fell, sharp metal stronger than steel grinding against the brick and slowing his descent until he hit the ground and disappeared into the shadows.

"What was that?" the man who had his disgusting hands on the poor women jerked his head to the right. Eyes squinted, trying to make out the shapes in the shadows, but Stiles was still.   
Unmoving and silent and just waiting for the right moment to strike.

Sometimes he wanted a fight. Loved the rush of the adrenaline crackling sharp around him as he manipulated his body into a weapon. But other times. Times like this when there were innocent people involved. Then he preferred to wait in the shadows. Use surprise to his advantage.

A moment passed and the man slowly turned back to the woman, his eyes beads of suspicion set deep in his brow.

"As my friend was saying," he spoke, voice pouring out like corn syrup, thick and slow and far too sweet. "All we want from you is--"

"Now now boys, is that any way to treat a lady," a third voice said, and Stiles felt a chill that stabbed straight through his gut and entwined its way up into his throat, a light croak unable to be heard over the presence of this new voice. A female voice. "If you ask me, she doesn't look too keen on doing any sort of 'favors' for you two." Stiles's eyes darted to the source of the voice with just as much shock as the other two men. She was leaning against the corner at the end of the alley. How she managed to sneak up on all of them without any cover of darkness, Stiles didn't know. Because there, with the light of the street behind her, she was so prominent. Standing out as a dark figure against the brightness, the soft curves of waist and hips and muscle. More muscle than Stiles ever remembered. Sharp shoulders cut against the night and flames of hair cascaded down under a mask topped with two familiar points.

"Well would you look at that," one of the men chuckled, far too calm considering how close this woman was to them. Stiles didn't know if they were cocky or just stupid. But he did know that he needed to get out of there before she saw him because otherwise... he was going to have a lot of explaining to do. "The Bat Bitch is here. How did we ever get so lucky," he tossed a look to his friend, a shrewd grin on his lips.

"Good question," his friend beamed back. He turned to face the figure. "We were just saying how much fun it would be to run into one of you flying rodents."

"I agree," she said, shifting away from the wall and standing up straight. The yellow glow from the street now caught on the front of her face, ruby lips smiling bright. "But I think it's going to be much more fun for me than it is for you."

And then she jumped, body rising with ease. Her long black cape whipped around her, a sharp crack in the night as she barrel turned through the air, her right foot coming down against the man with the knife's cheek. He went careening to the right, crashing against the wall. The other man let go of the terrified woman, who slid to the ground with a whimper. He darted at the newcomer, who sidestepped easily, grabbing his arm and using his weight to send him sprawling across the pavement.

"Get out of here. Now," she said with a jerk of her head toward the woman on the ground. The woman nodded, a thank you forming silent on her lips, before she scrambled away. The guy with the knife bounced back, brushing off the blow of the wall and spitting out a hawk of blood. Stiles could see her eye roll from here. When he ran at her, she was ready. A quick jab of the foot to the man's side, and then another up higher, under the armpit. Then she reared back. Swinging one leg up for momentum as she soared up in the air and the other foot snapped out, connecting under his chin with a thwack that made Stiles bite his own tongue. The man tumbled back, landing on his hands and ass. "You," she snapped her fingers at the man she had thrown into the street. "Take your friend and get out of here. And if I ever see you again, a broken jaw will be the least of your problems," she said over the distorted yammerings of pain coming from the man she had just fucking ninja kicked in the face. The guy on the ground began to nod, furious and afraid. His body moved like the most primal of creatures running from a predator as he clambered to his buddy, scooping him into his arms and the two of them stumbling away. 

Her hand, clad in black with blades identical to Stiles's running down her arm, came up and pressed into her ear. "Mugging off of Salem has been averted," she said. Stiles let out a sigh of relief, barely a puff because that was all he dared with her only yards away. She would be leaving soon. Running out into the street away from him and then he could make his escape and return to surveying the building he was dying to get inside.

Fuck me holy shit, he thought whenever she didn't turn back toward the entrance to the alley. No. She turned toward him, stepping further into the darkness with a bounce in her step. Stiles could feel the panic inside him, reverberating throughout his bones until he couldn't hear himself think. Could only act. As she stepped closer and closer toward him, only a matter of time before she caught sight of him lurking in the shadows, he acted purely out of instinct. Something he was kicking himself for doing.

His arm shot out, grappling hook launching high toward the edge of the building and then he was being hoisted up in the air, the brick rushing to greet him.

A zing of metal cut through the air around him, hitting the cable with a rip that made Stiles's stomach punch up into his chest. And then he was falling, legs flailing, trying to catch hold of something. Anything. The fear that rose up in him as he plummeted had its roots in something deeper than pain. He could feel it. Reaching into his heart and digging its tendrils deep. He did not fear pain, not really. Not after all that he'd already experienced. Wanted to avoid it, yes. But feared it? It was a part of his life that he had accepted. The fear itself though... the sheer thought of facing this woman. It made Stiles want to fall straight through the asphalt and keep falling into oblivion even as he landed flat on his back with a gasp.

And she was over him. Eyes skewed in confusion and a defensive tension in her shoulders.

Stiles wasn't one to lie still, though. As soon as she leered into his view he was moving. Trying to get away. Trying to keep her from looking at him. His legs scissored, making contact with hers in a beat and knocking her away. He scurried to his feet, legs a jackhammer against the ground as he sprinted away, desperate for the light. For the freedom. The lack of confrontation. 

Behind him, he could hear her springing to her feet. Hear the words rapid and sure, "Hostile spotted. Engaging." 

Stiles could hear it, bouncing light and non-assuming against the ground. A tiny pellet so gray that it almost disappeared against the dark blacktop. But he had thrown enough himself to know what was coming. Had just enough time to cover his ears before a bang broke through the night, accompanied by the brightness of the sun that sent him reeling to the right. To his left, he sensed her, coming at him with the speed and force of train and each movement echoing behind her as his head still rang. He had just enough time to duck out of the way and hear fist connect with brick. He took another swipe with his legs, trying to get her down long enough to get away, but she was expecting it this time. Bracing herself against the wall and catching his leg with a quick hand.

The heel of her palm met his chest and sent him stumbling back. As she closed in on him, he could hear the sharp intake of breath. Could see the way her eyes grew wide in the night as they caught sight of the symbol she had just shoved against.

"Stiles?" she gasped, voice high in disbelief. 

That dragged him back into himself. Fortified his muscles with a hardy steel that allowed him to regain control of his careening body. He lunged forward, one hand catching hers as she swung and ducking under so that he had it pinned behind her back. Just hard enough to keep her out of his way as he thrust a frantic hand toward her ear and slapped at the edge of her mask to try and shut off her communications system. She spun around though, untangling herself from Stiles's grasp and launching a kick hard into his stomach. The rest of her followed close behind, slamming him up against the rough brick, face only inches from his own

"Batgirl? Come in Batgirl. Do you need backup?" a tiny voice called into her hear, just loud enough and herself just close enough for Stiles to hear the call. His lips parted, a panicked gasp escaping as he shook his head, a frantic plea. She stared into him, hazel eyes bright in the dark and nostrils flaring under the cowl.

"Negative," she said finally through clenched teeth as her hand touched her ear piece. "False alarm. My comm system is looping interference again. Going radio silent as I recalibrate."

And then she pressed a button, any voice remaining in her ear disappearing as Stiles let out a sigh of relief. "Stiles—" she sneered, venom heavy in her voice. Stiles tried his best innocent grin, sure it wasn't as effective given the shock and rage and hurt that ran over her mouth exposed under the mask.

"Hey, Lyds," he tried. "Long time no see?"

"What are you doing here?" Lydia spat at him. "I don't see you for two years and I find you in an alley?"

"Well whose fault his that," he cried in protest. "You're the one that stopped visiting me."

"Because you left, Stiles. You left us," her voice oozed hurt and rancor. Brows pulled high and tight under her mask. "And I tried as long as I could to still be a part of your life but don't make it sound like I was the one who gave up on you." Her chest heaved and throat bobbed and she pulled away. Her caped back turned to Stiles and shoulders drooping.

"Lyds," he started, a cautious hand reaching out to her. It never made contact though. She was too fast. Twirling around like a tornado and fist connecting with the soft flesh and hard bone of Stiles's jaw. It snapped to the side, an ache blossoming quick and intense as the fist retracted.

"Fuck!" he yelled, the curse echoing off the alley. His cheeks puffed in pain and his hand grasped helplessly at his face. "God dammit! What the hell?"

"Like you didn't deserve that," Lydia rolled her eyes. "I..." she looked at him, eyes shining bright in the nighttime. Her whole physique softening until— she wrapped Stiles into a hug, armor clashing together. Stiles didn't expect that. "I missed you."

He let himself relax into his old friend, arms coming up to wrap around her waist. "I missed you too," he said.

“So uh…” her voice was soft against his hear, hair bristling against the tower of a bat ear that extended from her helmet. “Are you back back?” Then a nervous laugh, a huff of hurt against him. “I guess not considering you didn’t even tell me you were in town.”

“Hey,” he pulled back, eyes buried deep in a frown. “I didn’t tell you because I wasn’t ready to tell him that I was in town. And no,” he swallowed, throat tight and dry and desperate for relief, “not for good. I caught a lead. Followed it here, an engineering firm a few blocks away.”

“Really?” she jerked back, eyes wide but a smile playing at the edges of her lips. “You should come back to the manor.”

“Lyds, I—” he started, but she quickly shook her head.

“Not—” her eyes screwed shut, words quickly backtracking. “Not because of Der. Or Deaton. Or me. We’ve been tracking the Black Mask.” And that was all she had to say to rip a gasp from Stiles’s lips.

“Wait, really?” A heavy pull low in his gut spread through him. A warmth. An excitement. If Stiles could combine all his knowledge on the Black Mask with the computer power back at the Cave, it would make his job so much easier.

“Yeah,” she gave two short nods. “We got a tip that he was working on something in the city. Something big.”

“Lydia it’s something huge,” he said as Nash’s words echoed through his head. “Half a city.”

“All the more reason for you to come back home and help us.”

Stiles would deny it. Deny it until the day he died the way his heart leapt when she called the manor home, the muscle in his chest twisting and stretching and reaching out to catch hold of the word and pull it tight. Because it was the closest thing to a home he’d lived in. So much grander than the apartments he and his dad had bounced around to. So many memories that sculpted and cut away at him until he was the man he was. But still. There at the edge was the shadow, thick and choking with betrayal. Lies. And that made his heart curl in on itself.

“I…”

“Stiles please. Come back.” There it was. That little voice so soft and familiar, calling to mind immediate images of childhood bedrooms and late night sleep overs. And then again, in the back halls of competitions when one of them needed some encouragement. And even surrounded by tears, in the grand rooms of the manor so strict and severe while one of them held the other as they cried after a mission gone wrong. That was the voice of his best friend. His Lydia, who needed him.

“Fine,” his lips pursed. Heart a snare drum in his chest.

Cherry red lips pulled back into the biggest grin and then her arms were around him again. “Oh my god,” she said with a self-pleased grunt that Stiles could only assume came from her knowing she had successfully exploited the fact that Stiles would do anything for his one actual friend. “I missed you so much.”

“Yeah yeah,” he grumbled.

“Der—” her head did a double jerk back, happening in slow motion to Stiles as he watched the error she was in the processing of making register in her mind and on her face. The first little jerk happy and light as she began what she had thought would be a cheerful statement. The second as the casual slip of her mind became a heavy shift of the tongue into a hard r that begged to disappear. The traitorous sound curving into a “—rUhhhhhhh,” as her eyes darted to see if Stiles had caught it. “Deaton,” she blurted out in a desperate attempt to self-correct. “Deaton is going to be so happy to see you.”

“Please don’t tell,” the name caught in his throat, a heavy boulder that choked down on him. “Deaton,” he said, instead latching onto the image the man he idolized as the butler equivalent to Gandalf. The edges of Lydia’s lips tucked down into a frown but she nodded.

“Okay.”

“I just, uhh…” an airy laugh escaped, too empty and light to be convincing, “it makes this a little less bitter and a little more sweet. Sure we’re going to have to face each other after six years of practically zero contact but at least I get the joy of doing him the discourtesy of not calling first,” he said. He had abandoned all pretense that this had anything to do with anyone other than Derek. Derek. Even hearing it in his own head gave him a shock. For so long it had been replaced with “Batfucker,” “Assholeman,” or just a simple “Shit head.”

“Alright,” she laughed. “I think he at least owes you that.”

“Oh,” he let out a powerhouse of a snort. “He owes me a lot more than that. I plan to eat him out of house and home while I’m there. And you know how big that house and home is.”

“Like I’d expect anything else.” She stepped back and looped her arm through Stiles’s, forcing him to turn and walk with her toward the opening of the alley.

“And,” he added as the delicious thought occurred to him, “if I ever get the chance I’m kicking his ass.”

“Oooo,” Lydia sucked her teeth through a grin. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Nightman.”

“Yep, that’s me,” he said, not breaking stride as the sarcasm came in quick bursts. “Fighter of the Dayman. Champion of the… moon?’

“Oh please,” she tossed her head back and laughed, bright and clear as she pulled him with her. “Like I could actually forget your name. I know it’s been a few years since I visited but come on, there’s practically a shrine to you in the Cave.”

“Really?” a warmth crept up the back of his neck, stretching onto his cheeks. It was the same warmth he used to get when he’d score high at a competition and look over to see his dad in the bleachers.

“Oh yeah.” She nodded with a roll of her eyes. “I never mentioned it but it’s been going since you left. Only gotten bigger. I don’t even think he realizes what he’s doing. It’s like he just thinks of it as compiling intel. Only the topic of this particular corkboard just happens to exclusively be the next door vigilante -slash- his ex-partner.”

“Huh,” was all he could say. He had followed Lydia out into the street. Eased into the light by the comfort of his friend. But now there was a buzzing in his feet and every nerve in him screaming to run. Run. “I should, uh, make my way back to my bike. I guess there’s no need to scope out the engineering firm if you guys already know about it.”

“Nonsense.” She shook her head, curls bouncing around her. “I’ll give you a ride.”

“Nahhh that’s okay I’d rather walk,” he said, eyes turning toward the gray horizon that spanned away from him.

“Nightwing,” she protested, but he shook his head.

“I like the fresh air.” His arm slipped from hers and he took a step back. A black gloved hand lingered, fingers reaching for him before dropping down to her side.

Her eyes narrowed and he could see her lips begin to part as a counterargument began to emerge, but she sealed them tight. “Alright,” she said, and Stiles could hear the barest hint of frustration the lightest huff in the back of her throat. “But I’ll see you tomorrow at the Manor, yeah? And then we can go down and I’ll show you what we’ve gathered?” Stiles could feel a grin stretching, loose and easy, across his face at the thought of being back in the cave. So much tech. So many toys. He could almost hear the squeak of his cup shifting as he chubbed up at the thought.

“Absolutely,” he said, hand coming up to clasp her on the shoulder, brief and reassuring. She gave him a smile.

“Okay.” Her voice was soft. A particle of excitement buzzing behind it. And with a wave, he turned and jogged away. When he rounded the corner and his friend disappeared from sight, he kept jogging. His feet thudded against the sidewalk and the salty air the carried in from the pier stung his cheeks. He jogged until his lungs felt seared by each breath and his heart was a heavy thrum in his chest. He had been vaguely aware of the occasional passerby. A menagerie of startled “Is that— from Blüdhaven— the Nightwing— What’s he doing here?!” but he ignored them all. They weren’t in his way. Nothing could be right now. He was a juggernaut forcing his way through the night until he finally couldn’t. Only then, with his forearms braced against his knees and his breath coming in raspy gasps did he finally press the homing button to call his bike to him.


End file.
